Frostbite
by sribblee
Summary: A ten year old Zuko wakes up in the South Pole, burned and half-dead, and awaits his demise. That is, until the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe finds him. (Or: Zuko is raised in the Southern Water Tribe.) Main romantic pairing: Sokka/Zuko (eventually)
1. Introduction

A/N: Okay, so… this. It's… different. I'm not gonna lie, I'm really proud of it, I'm just not sure how to describe it. I'm not gonna do a whole backstory thing for it, you'll find all that out as you read. Next chapter comes after I get three reviews, so… review! Please? Enjoy!

His hands and feet are numb. It feels like he's walking on pillows. Fierce wind stings his eyes, his left… it's unbearable. His face… he can't possibly describe the pain. Blood streams down his face, his neck, onto his tunic.

He treks through the snow in a daze. How he got here, he's certain he remembers… he just can't worry about that right now.

His phoenix tail trails behind him, loose tresses whipping in front of his face and blinding him.

He has to find… somewhere. But where is there? In the middle of the southern tundra? He doesn't know where he's going, he just… has to find something.

His knees ache, his neck burns, he's not sure how long he can continue. He can't keep going.

His legs fall underneath him. They're met with the piercing snow, and he can't feel anything below his waist. Snowflakes are bullets in his side, forcing him back. He lowers to the frozen ground, desperate to avoid the cold. He cups his head in his dead hands and curls his torso inwards in attempt to regulate his body heat.

He channels his inner fire, weak in this temperature, but coursing through his veins nonetheless. He inhales deeply. Control yourself. Stay calm. Steady yourself. He feels the steam in his lungs, the inferno of a heart in deep in his chest, clawing its way out. He exhales, ribbons of flame dancing in front of his face, warming his nose, almost distracting him from the stabbing pain of his cheek, the needles behind his eye. Blood pools under his face, melting the snow beneath his cheek.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Remember what Uncle told you.

He stays like that. Slowly warming, though not enough to really matter. Acceptance sets in; he's going to die out here. There's no point. Even the world's most talented firebenders, even—he feels a pit in his stomach at the realization—his father would surely perish in this environment. Firebenders aren't made for this.

The last thing he remembers is red-stained snow and the muffled sound of men yelling, coming closer. The crunch under their feet. But then nothing. His vision blurs, his eyes fill with pins, and he buries his face into the ground, crystals of ice pricking at his sensitive cheek, singing his nose and ears.

He's startled awake by the sound of barking and yelling. It rings in his ears, racking his brain and bubbling up behind eyes.

"Better do away with him, Chief."

He hears the rustling of cloth and sees heavy winter boots under his tear-frozen eyelashes. He lifts an arm from his head, revealing his face to whomever is standing over him. His teeth chatter comically and he can clearly picture the paleness of his young face.

He panics. There are men surrounding him, though he can't tell how many through his hazed sight. He assumes the worst, that they're going to do… something to him. A Fire Nation boy intruding on their land? Easy target.

He strains to move his left hand, tries to lift himself up, but feels nothing underneath him. He's been lying atop that arm for Agni knows how long. He moves his free hand into the hardened ice in front of him and pushes down. He manages to raise a few inches from the ground, then recoils in pain, collapsing to the ground. His breathing quickens and his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. He can't hide the frightened noise that escapes from the back of his throat.

"He's just a boy," a man's deep voice mumbles inside his numb ears. A spear drops to the ground, the expected thud muffled by the heavy snow. The man most in front of him drops to his knees.

What?

"Chief—"

"His injured. Someone get me the bandages."

He's lifted from the ground, and, to weak to fight back, is placed upon the man's knee. His ribs twinge at the movement. The man's meaty hands are placed on his back and chest, holding him upright, his head resting on his broad shoulder. His eyes dart back and forth under his half opened lids, his breath visible in the freezing air. The harsh wind burns the open flesh of his neck.

From behind him, he hears the crunch of snow, it fades, then grows louder and stops. There are noises all around him, half of which he can't identify. It scares him.

He can barely render a hand moving dangerously close to his face, then flinches. The hand graces his bloodied face, lingering at the soft flesh, them moves upwards to the top of his head. It's a strange sensation; rough clothes strips lace around the left of his head, over a side of his crown and covering an entire half of his face. He whines, the rigid texture scratching his skin.

"Hush," the man soothes, continuing.

There's a tearing sound near his ear, and then all around him goes silent. The man holding him sighs, then begins loosely wrapping bandage around his neck, tingling the fresh wound stretching across it.

He coughs; a strained, subtle noise that escapes his lungs. He feels the corner of his mouth wetten, and his throat feels fuzzy.

"Bring me the spare parka."

There are more footsteps, then one of the man's hands leave him, bringing something into his wide lap beside him. It brushes against his chest. It's soft. He hears more noises, closer to him now. Against his face, this time. Everything goes black, his head engulfed in something soft and coarse all at once; he can't fairly describe it. He struggles to breathe, his lungs feel tight and warm, his chest rises up and down faster and faster. His breath bounces back onto his cheeks and his face feels heated. Then, it's all over. He feels a chill of fresh air hit his face and he relaxes. His eyes are almost entirely shut, but he can feel the light on him. A soft, unknown material covers his torso, warming him and calming him ask at once. He curls inward, against the man's chest. He can feel him stiffen, then wrap his strong arms under his legs and back. He's lifted up, and feels the cold of the South against his uncovered cheeks as he's carried away. He buries his face in the soft fur, he assumes, around his neck and drifts off.

His eyes flutter open, sensitive to the piercing wind slicing his face. He steadies himself, hand on… something. He doesn't know where he is. He's warmer, though. That's all that really matters to him right now. Maybe he's going to make it after all. He groans, raising himself up entirely, the wind hitting him even harder.

"Hush, child. We're almost there." A man, whose voice is different than the one who had bandaged him, lays a large hand on his shoulder, and against his every instinct, it relaxes him.

He settles back down in his still unidentified seat, hiding his face in the strange fluff around his head. He feels his warm breath on his cheek, against his neck, and it's soothing. Sleep overwhelms him. After all that's happened, some of it he doesn't entirely remember, he deserves a good rest.

His silk bedsheets brush against his thighs. He tosses and turns, his covers entangling him. His breathing is labored, shallow.

Dad would never do that to me.

He rolls onto his back, hands clenching his blanket to his chest, heating the material through his anger.

Azula always lies.

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	2. Fuzzy

I'm really, really sorry for taking so long on this ! I promised the next chapter after three reviews and this now has... eight. Again, I'm really sorry. This chapter beat me up. I'll immediately begin writing the second chapter after I post this. Enjoy!

 **o O o**

"Zuko, please, my love, listen to me. Everything I've done, I've done to protect you."

— Ursa, Zuko Alone

 **o O o**

She's leaving him; walking away. Most likely, and he's not sure how he knows this, she's leaving him forever.

Who is she? He's sure he can… remember… right?

She's… she's…

Mom?

Gone. Like everyone.

 **o O o**

He stares off into the darkness that surrounds him. The whole world feels foggy; like he's hearing everything from the other side of a thick pane of glass. Although… it's not glass. He turns his head around, checking his surroundings, but finds nothing. He sees nothing. It's not glass, it's a brick wall.

 **o O o**

"Drink this, dear."

A bowl in pressed to his mouth and he's too tired to protest. He drinks the bitter liquid, all of it, and the bowl is taken away. He coughs, his lungs seemingly splitting in half.

He doesn't know what that stuff was, or who the person talking was, or why someone was feeding him nasty tasting beverages, but he's just… too tired…

...to think about that right now.

 **o O o**

"Chief."

Hakoda turns to the woman, Iaekna, and inclines his head, his mouth a grim, straight line. "Yes?"

"He's awake," she states. She says nothing more; there's no need to. Hakoda knows what to do. Though the tribe had never been in any situation remotely similar to this before, somehow, he knows. It may be a chieftain thing, knowing what to do. It could be in his blood.

Whatever the reason, he silently nods to the healer and heads off towards his hut to gather something for the boy to eat.

 **o O o**

He's gotten used to the darkness. It's quite soothing, actually.

Like when he was little — five, maybe younger, he thinks — and his mother would tuck him in for his afternoon nap. He would sit and stare at the back of his eyelids until eventually everything just went away.

When he slept, he escaped. Well, not really escape, so to speak, since afterwards he would just be back again. But, for what really only amounted to maybe an hour or two, he was gone. He slipped off into unconsciousness, let his mind drift into its subconscious, and would have gladly last the world move on without him.

He misses his afternoon nap.

 **o O o**

The peripheral stillness subsides, the girth of the world fills into his senses. The whistle of the wind, the drag of his breathing, the itchy fluff teasing his cheek, the soft weight covering him.

Yet, the darkness remains.

His insides coil around each other as he sits up, his hands clammy and fingers twitching. Where is everyone? What's that noise? Footsteps? His heartbeat?

"Ah, Iaekna was right. You're awake."

Why does that sound so familiar?

His ears feel stuffed with cotton, but whatever's happening must be close because Zuko can clearly hear a rustle of fabric and an odd clinking noise — which he is going to assume is cutlery of some sort.

"I brought you something to eat." So, he was right.

He tries to respond to the strange voice, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp. His throat burns at the use, seizing up on him, preventing any further abuse.

"Shh," the deep voice soothes. "Don't speak. You've got a pretty nasty gash on your neck."

Shocked, Zuko moves an unsteady hand to his bandaged — what? — neck, but a hand grips his wrist and pulls it away.

"Don't touch it," he reprimands.

 _"Don't touch that!" she growls, fire burning in her eyes. "You'll ruin it like you do everything else."_

He groans, wiping a hand over the left side of his face. What was that? He coughs, violently, sending waves of pain through his throat.

And then it hits him: where is he? He feels his eyes are closed, and tries to open them, but they're… constrained, somehow. He feels a right pressure on his face, too. _Where is the man who's speaking to me?_

He frantically shakes his head side to side, looking around him, but his eyes are only met with more darkness.

"Your face was burned," the man answers, somehow sensing his panic. "All across your eyes and stretching past your left ear. You can't see because of the bandages." A pause. "You've been asleep for about a week, now."

A week? How…?

Zuko hears more rustling and shifting. "Here." There is a tinking sound and Zuko feels heat below his face and smells salt. "I brought some soup for you. Careful, I'm going to feed it to you now, okay?" The rim of a cup or bowl presses against his lips and a hot liquid fills his mouth. He hums at the salty taste; the soup is hearty and rather thick, and made from some sort of meat, though the contents is mostly just broth. The bowl leaves his mouth and he swallows the food, loving the heat it leaves in his throat.

"Good, isn't it?" the man says. "Sekkena made it." Then, after a beat, "She's the main cook around here. Well, after my mother, that is," he laughs. "My name is Hakoda, by the way. I'm the Chief, here."

Zuko tilts his head at the man in question — or where his voice is coming from. "Of course," he breathes, like he was just now realizing something important. "The chief of the Southern Water Tribe."

Water Tribe? He's… the chief here? The Southern Water Tribe?

The man — Hakoda, he corrects himself — seems to sense his distress, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down."

The smooth rim of the bowl of soup touches his dry, chapped lips and he drinks, and drinks, and they continue like that — Hakoda feeding him and him taking it; taking the charity of a Water Tribesman.

What else can he do? Hakoda said he had been burned, and his throat was cut. He… remembers that… kind of.

He remembers the pain, but, that's not all that new to him. Nevermind being too tired to really recall anything before now, Zuko knows that. He knows that the pain is a regular occurrence for him. Maybe not this bad, but, well… whatever.

This man is helping him for now, and Zuko may be young, but he knows better.

Why — how could someone like him care? Hakoda is Water Tribe. Zuko is clearly Fire Nation.

The Water Tribe is filled with backwards savages and ruthless barbarians. They only know death; to kill.

Zuko is a ten year old, Fire Nation boy, severely injured and weak. Though in firebending, he's a failure, they don't know that. Besides, he can't do much of anything to defend himself in his condition.

"Rest, now, little one," Hakoda whispers. "You'll need your strength."

What he'll need his strength for, he can't bother to ask.

Sleep tempts him, and he gives in.

He, most likely, won't make it to morning.

 **o O o**

"Will he be alright?"

Hakoda turns to his other. "Iaekna says he will, and I trust her."

Bato hums in acknowledgement, nodding his head.

"What's the damage?" he asks tentatively.

Hakoda sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Almost half his face is burned off, Bato. More than, maybe. There's a wound on his neck, straight across his throat, his ankle is sprained… Iaekna says he's starved, too. Thin as bone, the poor thing."

Bato frowned, shaking his head. "His own people," he breathed.

 **o O o**

 _Odd_ , he thinks. _I'm still here._

Are those… footsteps again? He shivers. He's here.

"I brought you some soup. Can you sit up?"

Zuko turns his head to the sound, which is, by his estimation, coming from right next to him.

This is it, he thinks.

He nods his head, and, ignoring the pain, lifts himself off of the bed mat. He's shaking terribly; he doesn't need to see himself — if he even could — to know that.

"Are you feeling alright?" Hakoda — he recognized his voice — asks him, sounding oddly… concerned? No, he can't be. He must be delusional. The only person ever worried about him is his mother.

His mother? Mom?

He reluctantly nods his head yes, reaching up to right a few untamed tresses that are tickling his face. He tucks the strands behind his unbandaged ear, but his hand stills at the base of his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the newly cut locks.

"We had to cut your hair," Hakoda explains. "It was burned up pretty badly." He paused, seemingly hesitant. Then, "Iaekna."

"Coming, Chief."

What follows is the soft pad of feet on the ground and the quiet sound of someone sitting down on their knees.

"Stay still, son," Hakoda commands. "Iaekna, our healer, is going to take off your bandages."

Okay, this, and he'll admit it, is going better than he thought it would. Granted, he did think they were going to kill him, and it could only get better from there.

He senses the warm touch of the healer's fingers upon his face, untucking the outermost strip of cloth. The fingers move around his face, until only a thin layer of fabric clings to his face, the tease of release clawing at his closed eyes. The hands pull the last of the bandages from his face, and he immediately feels the cold prick of the wind on his newly exposed face.

"Try to open your eyes," the woman tells him.

He obliges, though not really knowing why. He pulls his eyelids apart, the skin almost fused together. He peeps one small eye open — his right one — and tries to differentiate the moving colors and silhouettes swirling around him.

Slowly, his left eye creaks up open as well, though not as wide, joining the other in attempting to decipher his surroundings.

"Boy?" He turns his head to his left and looks up. That's Hakoda. He's a blur of brown and blue to his left, accompanied by a smaller smudge of a similar color scheme. "Everything alright?"

Zuko turns to the direction of the chief's soothing, but stern, voice, eyelashes — correction, he has no eyelashes anymore, only eyelids — at the picture in front of him.

The room looks like one of those pretty chalk drawings his sister would make in the palace courtyard, or the pastel drawings his mother enjoyed painting.

"Fuzzy," he chokes, trying rapidly to blink away the film over his eyes.

And then it hits him.

"I… I can't see," he stutters. The smudges drift closer, louder. Suddenly, everything is too loud. The rustle of fabric on fabric, the flutter of eyelids, the soft whisper of hair, the hiss of the wind. "Why can't I see?" His voice sounds so small to his ears. "Why is everything," he coughs, "so blurry?"

"Calm down." That's Hakoda again.

"He's panicking."

Wait. Who's that? Think. Think. Oh, that's the healer woman. What was that? He'd stopped paying attention.

"—I'll go get her." Hakoda. Who is her? When did his head get into his arms? Why is he breathing so quickly? Stop. You're embarrassing—

Who? Who is he embarrassing? Father isn't here.

 _Father isn't here. Mother isn't here. Uncle isn't here. Azula isn't here, or Mai, or Ty Lee. I'm not there to embarrass them._

He hears muffled voices coming from… the doorway. From outside?

"—you, dear. He's freaking out." Who's he? "Iaekna just took off his bandages."

He turns his head, which is safely — safe, this is safe — rested in his arms. There's just more blue. Is the door blue? Light shines in his eyes. Is the door open now? That doesn't look like a door.

The light dims, line something is blocking it, and then disappears completely. The room grows hotter around him — he can feel it with his firebending — and the slight noise of cloth on floor his his ears.

"Hi," a feminine voice says. "I'm Kya."

 **o O o**

I'm sorry.


End file.
